Archive for the ‘Features’ Category

William Shakespeare peered across the room. A sad-looking dark-haired girl sat at a table on her own. After scrutinising her arse for a few seconds, Shakespeare decided he should go over to see what was wrong.

“You all right?” he enquired.

“Ahh, I’m having a bad week,” said Kim Kardashian.

“It’s not a man, is it?” said Shakespeare.

“Yeah, it’s my marriage. I filed for divorce yesterday.”

Shakespeare felt it would be okay to put his hand on her shoulder at this point. “Oh no,” he said. “That’s terrible. But sometimes these things need to happen.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” said Kim. “You know, I worked at it and worked at it, but it just reached a point, where, you know…”

Shakespeare sat down next to her. “Sometimes people grow apart,” he proffered.

“That’s exactly it,” said Kim. “I feel like maybe we grew apart over the days.”

There was a pause.

“Days?” asked Shakespeare.

“Yeah,” said Kim, without elaborating.

“How long were you married?” asked Shakespeare.

“72 days,” said Kim.

Shakespeare removed his hand from the Kardashian shoulder and looked into the middle distance. “72 days?” he repeated.

“72 days,” said Kim again.

“But you were together for a while before that?” asked Shakespeare.

“Oh yeah,” said Kim, looking up for the first time. We were together for months. We met almost a year ago now.”

Shakespeare started laughing.

“What?” said Kim. “Why are you laughing?”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” said Shakespeare, leaning back in his chair.

“You aren’t heartbroken,” stated Shakespeare confidently. “You haven’t earned the right to be heartbroken. You’re upset, yes, but saying you’re heartbroken is an insult to anyone who’s invested time in a relationship and had a depth of feeling for someone that can produce genuine heartbreak.”

“Don’t tell me how I’m feeling,” spat Kim.

“I don’t know you from Adam, but I bet you miss the attention the relationship drew rather than the relationship itself,” said Shakespeare, arching one eyebrow.

“What the fuck?” spluttered Shakespeare, all the humour shaken from him. “How does a wedding make money?”

“If you’re important enough, you can get magazine and TV deals.” Kardashian fluttered her eyelashes outrageously.

“There was a TV deal? For your wedding?” Shakespeare was staggered. His head hung and he stared at the table in front of him.

“One of the worst parts about this divorce is that E! might pull out of the deal to show the re-runs,” said Kim.

“You fucking dick,” cried Shakespeare suddenly and with feeling.

Kim Kardashian, looked at him in astonishment.

“You complete fucking knob,” continued Shakespeare, as if the point needed making again. “You know, I saw you from over there.” He gestured towards the doorway. “I saw your arse and your tits and I thought ‘there’s somebody worth talking to’. But I’ve been here for about two minutes and I’m already wondering if you’re the most despicable human being I’ve ever encountered.”

Kim Kardashian’s eyes moistened.

“There isn’t much in life worth living for, but the few things that are good all revolve around your relationships with the people closest to you. If you’ve acted-out the closest relationship there is, you’re a fucking prick, whatever your reasons – even if the guy was in on it and felt the same way.”

“Well that’s your opinion,” sniffed Kim.

“It fucking is,” replied Shakespeare. “And you know what? Now that I come over here, I see that your face has a bland quality that might not seem apparent from a distance or in a small photograph. However, once you get close, once there’s clarity, it is totally without beauty. You’re like a pale, hollow mannequin that’s totally devoid of any of the human qualities that truly make someone attractive.”

“Your clothes are fucking retarded,” retorted Kim.

“Good job I haven’t based my entire life around them then, dipshit,” said Shakespeare, sauntering off.

Shakespeare glanced around him. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You just want to strip me of all my sexuality, that’s what you want.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Ellis-Bextor.

Shakespeare pointed at a group of 20-something men kicking a ball about nearby. They were all wearing tight swimming costumes, sunglasses and nothing else. “You want me to wear safe, sexless clothing like that,” said Shakespeare. “I’m standing here in a stunning padded doublet and you hate the fact that women are eyeing me up.”

“Trust me, no-one’s eyeing you up,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“No-one?” asked the bard, rhetorically. “No-one? What about that group of girls over there?”

“They’re boys.”

“Or that smartly dressed young lady over there?”

“That’s Martin Rossiter from Gene.”

Shakespeare squinted at the figure who was partly silhouetted as a result of the late afternoon sun. “Oh yeah, you’re right. It is Martin Rossiter from Gene, the twat. I see you don’t have any problem with him wearing sexy attire?”

“He’s wearing a blazer,” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor incredulously.

“I know,” said Shakespeare. “Put a nice broad pair of paned hose underneath in place of those ridiculous narrow trousers and he wouldn’t look half bad.”

“Many an afternoon I would while away my time in the Louvre,” said Codling, tossing his head slightly to remove his fringe from his eyes. “I would sit there, pondering the many possible pharmacological treatments for my malaise, little knowing that the art surrounding me was the true cure.”

“Great art is so uplifting,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“That’s how I feel about Groovejet,” said Codling, catching and holding his companion’s gaze.

Ellis-Bextor’s face reddened to a colour ever-so-slightly pinker than bright white. “Well that was primarily Spiller’s work, you know.”

“Not at all,” replied Codling. “It’s the vocals that bring the humanity to the music. It’s that which touches the heart. It’s that which affirms one’s faith in mankind.”

“Spiller asked me to try and make my voice as emotive as possible,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“Is she banging on about fucking Groovejet again,” said William Shakespeare, strolling towards their table, voluminous breeches rustling with each step. “Sorry if she’s boring the tits off you, mate. She goes on and on about that fucking record. I tell her I’ll stick my boot up her arse if I hear the name Spiller one more fucking time, but she doesn’t listen.”

“On the contrary,” said Neil Codling. “It’s a topic that greatly interests me.”

“Well you don’t get it day-in, day-out, do you? It would be a topic that would piss you right off then, I can tell you.”

“Where have you been?” asked Ellis-Bextor, with overcompensatory enthusiasm.

“Well there’s a story,” said Shakespeare, brightly. “I have been at Cimitiere de Montparnasse. And do you know what I found there?”

With a swoosh of his ridiculous velvet jerkin, Shakespeare whirled round and strode off along the river bank. Ellis-Bextor opted not to follow him.

After 20 minutes or so, the pasty-faced vocalist had calmed down a touch and decided to go after the bard with the intention of making peace. As she rounded a bend in the river, she was greeted by an astonishing sight.

Shakespeare was standing on two stones in the middle of the river. His lower garments were lying discarded on the riverband and he was squatting so that his testicles were being buffetted by the cool waters cascading over a higher rock behind him.

Ellis-Bextor was aghast. “What… What are you doing?” she said, barely able to form the words.

“Isn’t it obvious?” screamed Shakespeare in a deranged tone, his voice cracking with the effort of suppressing his powerful emotions. “I’m trying to give you what you want. I’m trying to improve myself. I’m trying to win your approval.”

“How?” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor in stunned incomprehension.

Shakespeare stood up and raced over to her, completely naked from the waist down.

“Quickly,” he said. “Give me your hand before they warm up. Feel how taut they are.”